brain?
There’s really no way of knowing, until I eventually snap.
CHAPTER NINE
After work, I go to drive home and end up at Tash’s house instead. We don’t have plans, and she’s probably not expecting me, but I was so focused on white-knuckling the steering wheel and keeping the bottom of my left foot glued to the floor that I guess my subconscious took over. I’m not surprised. It’s getting to a point where, when I wake up in the morning, she’s the first person I want to see.
I park across the street and go up to the house, making sure to give a wide berth to the one-eyed cat licking itself on the driveway. It looks like it’s got at least half a dozen diseases. Though some part of me realizes that it’d probably be good for me to imagine petting it, I can’t quite bring myself to take that kind of risk. Even thinking about it could give me rabies.
When I knock on the door, there’s the sound of shuffling from inside. I’m guessing Tash probably just got out of the shower, or she’s changing, since she just got off of work a little before I did. Of course, that brings up a mental image of her standing in her room, wearing nothing but a towel. Then later, on the couch. I can feel myself blushing, just thinking about it.
The door swings open, and it’s like someone has thrown a bucket of cold water in my face.
“Oh. Hi Mrs. Bohner,” I take a step back, feeling suddenly awkward. I’ve only met her in passing a few times. Once when I came to pick up Tash for a date, and once I saw her taking out the trash in the morning when we were on our way to school.
“If you’re looking for Tash, she’s not home.” Unlike her daughter, Tash’s mom is short and small boned, with curly brown hair. But she seems to share a similar ‘don’t mess with me’ attitude.
“Oh.” Okay…what now? I look around, trying to figure out what to say next, and that’s when I notice that she’s wearing a lot of makeup and this really low-cut, tight black tank top with the word ‘Buck’s’ printed across it. The other times I’ve seen her, she’s always been wearing very little makeup, and conservative business attire. Like, mom clothes. This is very, very different. Even more disturbing is the little black nametag, which reads ‘Shelly.’
Didn’t Tash say her mom’s name was Sharon?
I know there’s something else I’m supposed to say, but the wrongness of the situation has caught the attention of my OCD and now I’m fascinated. When it comes to polite conversation, I’m drawing a blank.
“Can I help you with anything else?” Sharon—or Shelly—purses her lips, and for the first time I’m struck by her resemblance to Tash. It’s all in the annoyed facial expression, apparently.
“Sorry. I just…” I force myself to meet her eyes, to stop analyzing every little detail of her appearance like a total freak. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“Sometime after I leave for work.” She shrugs. “She left about a half hour ago to take Nana and Dottie to bingo at the community center. That’s all I know.”
“Great,” I say, much too quickly. Too eagerly. Never mind that I have no clue where that is. I consider asking her, but then I realize I can just google it and stop bothering her. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” With that, she turns and slams the door behind her, practically in my face.
I secretly feel a little bit vindicated, as weird as it seems. Because Tash is always saying how she worries that my parents secretly hate her, and I know they don’t. But if her mom hates me , then maybe we’ll finally be even. Or, at least, in Tash’s mind. As far as I’m concerned, we always have been.
Turning around, I go back to my car and grab my iPhone off of the hands-free holder. I’m halfway through a search query for the Carterville Community Center—because Guthrie is too small to have one—when I see Tash’s mom leave the trailer. She’s carrying one of those huge
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